Wednesday, 28 December 2016
Sunday, 28 June 2015
A huge crowd of passers−by and neighbours had gathered near the Madagascar Gendarmerie Brigade to see the screaming Hamidou. A stream of blood was flowing out of the yawning wound on Hamidou’s back as he lay helpless on the ground. His neighbor Yaouba who had inflicted the wound on him stood beside him with a machete in his right hand as confused as a man who has lost his lone ten thousand Francs CFA bank note in a gambling deal.
Yaouba looked confused and terrified but not guilty when George Tana the Brigade Commander for Madagascar made his way through the mammoth crowd into the very heart of the macabre scene of that early Wednesday morning.
“What has happened to him?” George Tana asked nobody in particular. His question got lost into the crowd mainly composed of French−speaking Yaoundé city dwellers. The people in the crowd continued to murmur their worries in some broken French—mostly ungrammatical and full of linguistic interferences—and in some Cameroon mother tongues such as Ewondo and Eton. One could hear some of them asking questions like “Mon beau, c’est quoi ҫa?” and getting a million diverse answers. Yet no answer was satisfactory.
“Bon, qu’est−ce que s’est passé avec lui? the gendarme officer quickly corrected himself. He was naturally obliged to conform to the odd linguistic realities of Yaoundé and her environs. French−speaking Cameroonians in such cities as Yaoundé, Douala and Bafoussam behaved as if English was a strange language from another world and, may be, meant to be spoken by monkeys!
“Je n’ai….je n’ai pas….ce n’est pas moi qui…c’est lui même qui m’a donné la….la….la machette, chef”, Yaouba stammered in confusion.
The uniform man shouted his question again and made for Yaouba’s chest to button him up.
Just before the uniform man could land a second blow on Yaouba’s left cheek, the wounded Hamidou decided to save the innocent fellow. In a coarse and shrieking voice, Yaouba told Officer Tana: “Shep, cerr n’est pas luirr. Moi qui lui donner ҫa pour voir si l’écorce travaille. Prenezrr moi à l’hôpital, si non ze va mourir, shep…” He spoke broken French—mostly ungrammatical and full of the [r] sound—in a typical Nordiste tone and yet he was not a Cameroonian. He was a Malian expatriate in Cameroon. He insistently pleaded with the officer to leave his neighbour Yaouba alone. As he spoke, he struggled to move his body in an effort to stand up to his feet and stop the officer from harming Yaouba. The more he struggled, the more the large wound on his back yawned like a tired pregnant woman and spat blood like an angry volcanic mountain spitting lava.
Everybody at the scene got totally confused including Officer Tana. It was very impossible to guess why Hamidou had given Yaouba a machete to wound him with. Was it a suicide attempt? Was it magic? Was it an occultist ritual? In every mind there, except that of Hamidou and Yaouba, the whole issue remained a good subject of speculation.
It suddenly dawned on Officer Tana that two things were at stake in that situation: to save Hamidou’s life and to investigate into that sad, terrifying matter. Naturally, the former issue weighed heavier than the latter. Then Officer Tana ordered some two young men in the crowd to get a vehicle to transport the victim to hospital. The two young men got closer to the highway linking Carriere and Mokolo. There they stopped a taxi with two passengers on board. After they had explained the situation to the taxi driver, the latter pleaded with his two passengers to hire another taxi and permit him help carry the victim to hospital. He cleared off the road sufficiently before parking the taxi.
The blood−stained Hamidou was helped into the backseats of the old, yellow taxi and laid flat on his stomach. Officer Tana asked Yaouba to go into the front seat with his machete. The officer squeezed himself up into the same front seat with a big, black ledger held under his left armpit and a black Beifer pen in the breast−pocket of his khaki. The old, yellow, moving house then took off for the Yaoundé Central Hospital driving through the Mokolo Market. The car was put on double traffic lights.
It was about 8:30 am on December 5, 2012, when they took off for the hospital. Luckily for them, the day was a Wednesday, a day on which the Mokolo Market does not open. Consequently, the long and unending queue of bomber−to−bomber cars usually found between Total Madagascar and Mokolo Sapeur was absent. There were no traffic jams that day. The about three−kilometres distance between Madagascar and the Central Hospital that might otherwise be covered in forty five minute to an hour was covered in five minutes only. The Bamoum−born driver of the taxi Njoya Alioum too hit his chest in driving it. He drove like somebody who is late for Heaven and has been informed that only one chance is left for a human being to get in there.
Before 9:oo am that day, Hamidou had already gone through the emergency reception room of the Yaoundé Central Hospital, had been washed, dressed up in the hospital’s patients’ outfit and laid on a bed in the men’s section of the emergency ward. Dr Martin Fouda and his team had treated the wound with great care and dressed it up. They had administered an anti−tetanus injection to the patient around the wound before bandaging it. The patient was given some tablets which made him sleep deeply for about an hour in order to have enough rest.
When Dr Fouda came out from the patient’s room, he met Officer Tana and Yaouba sitting on a bench under a tree in the yard. He walked up to them and reassured them that the patient’s life was safe, that there was no reason for panicking.
“Doctor, can we talk with the patient now?” Officer Tana asked the doctor just when the latter was turning to go back.
“Well, Sir”, the doctor said, “the patient is asleep right now. But I can assure you that in an hour’s time I’ll take you in to talk with him. Just let him have some rest”. Then he disappeared into the corridor opposite them which leads to his officer.
While the doctor and his team had been busy working on Hamidou, Officer Tana attempted finding out the truth about the matter from Yaouba. Yaouba told him that Hamidou alone could explain what had happened. He however made it known that the two of them were neighbours. He admitted that he was the one who had inflicted the wound on Hamidou and under the latter’s command. After tying a laya—a charm—round his waist, Hamidou had given him a machete and asked him to give him a test−cut…
One hour later, Officer Tana, Yaouba and Dr Fouda made their way into Hamidou’s room. The patient was awake now. The room smelled nothing but tablets and dry paint—it must have been given the fresh brownish coat of paint it wore within the past three months or so. The doctor asked the gendarme officer to use the lone table chair in the room while he and Yaouba took standing postures in front of the patient’s bed. Officer Tana pulled the chair which was near the tail of the bed and placed it close to where Hamidou’s head laid in bed. He placed the big, black ledger on his laps, opened a blank page in it, removed the pen in his breast−pocket, uncorked the pen and quickly wrote down a few things including the date of the day. He asked for the patient’s identity card and the latter had none. He asked the patient who he was and the patient replied that he was Yaya Hamidou, from Mali. When asked what his profession was, Hamidou turned his face away from the officer…Officer Tana took down some notes and turned to Yaouba for his own identification papers to no avail too. Yaouba claimed that his ID card had been left at home given that when Hamidou called him early that morning he didn’t know he was going to get into such trouble. He told the officer that his name was Zakat Yaouba, from Chad. He was a shoe mender by profession. The officer noted everything down into the black ledger. He turned to Hamidou and asked him to tell them what had happened.
Hamidou coughed, cleared his throat and yet did not speak. He rather stared absent−mindedly into the white ceiling of the room. In a low but deeply menacing voice, the officer told him that there wasn’t enough time to waste. Still in his usual broken French, Hamidou began narrating the funny and at the same time pathetic story while George Tana was taking down some notes into the black ledger.
Hamidou made rather tantalizing and pathetic revelations, though funny at the same time. According to the revelations, he had been a thief, specialized in pick−pocketing and burglary in the Mokolo Market and its neighbourhoods since the year 2000. He had wandered into Cameroon fifteen years earlier as a shoe mender. After making the rounds of the seven hills of Yaoundé for years under sun and under rain without succeeding to make any substantial amount of money to take back home, he finally settled on the rather easy−going pick−pocketing. He worked in a network with other criminals who included drug dealers and burglars of both Cameroonian and foreign nationalities.
Their activities usually got intensified in the months of November and December for two obvious reasons: the dry season is usually a season of money in Cameroon and the approaching end−of−year feasts of Christmas and New Year always entail gathering enough money to squander in wining and dining with prostituting women on the feasts days. They would snatch away wallets from buyers who come to shop in Mokolo. They would tiptoe behind students returning from schools like Government Bilingual Practicing High School (LBA), Yaoundé, and search their backs for money, text books, cell phones and other valuables. If caught in such acts, they would fall victim to jungle justice—snake beatings and/or lynching…
When December 2012 began, Hamidou thought of this means of getting money. He also thought of its harmful consequences and decided to fortify himself before getting involved in it. But he kept on wondering how and where to get this done. He wondered and wondered and wondered.
Then he remembered Mallam Fake, in the Briquetérie neighbourhood, who was widely known in Yaoundé for his powerful charms: charms for attracting women, charms for protection against witches and wizards, and many other types of charms. Mallam Fake would certainly have some charm for fortification in his field of business, Hamidou thought. That was in the evening of Monday December 3, 2012.
The following day, as early as 6: oo am, Hamidou was already on his way through the dirt−ridden slums of Briqueterie en route to Mallam Fake’s residence and shrine. He wound himself like a snake along winding footpaths littered with old, wandering plastic papers, empty bottles and tins, human faeces, decaying dead rats, and rotting remnants of food. Here and there he saw stagnant pools of thick, dark−grayish water, breeding countless mosquitoes. From time to time, a colony of houseflies would scatter into the air, leaving behind a rotting dead rat or human excrement, as they perceived Hamidou’s approaching footsteps.
He finally met Mallam Fake in his all−red shrine. The latter was burning incense in order to get set to start receiving his clients for the day. Hamidou explained to the charms expert that he was in need of a charm for protection against cuts, stabs and bullets. The expert first laughed a dry laughter before assuring him that that kind of charm was just no issue as far as he was concerned. For him to make that charm was as easy as eating. It was to cost ten thousand Francs CFA. Hamidou readily and happily paid him the amount. Then the expert set off with work immediately.
It didn’t take the expert up to thirty minutes to build the charm. He assembled some gun powder, a piece of iron (probably from a stainless steel knife), seven needles and seven razor blades. He wrote some lines on a piece of paper in Arabic, pressed up the paper and added it to the available items on the floor. He gathered all the items into a piece of brown leather and stitched it up using a needle he had removed from a nearby bottle of some black liquid—probably castor oil and the burnt powder of some herbs. He attached a long robe to the stitched charm and dropped it on the floor before him. He went into an adjoining room and came out with a small glass bottle containing some yellowish liquid. On the bottle were found the inscriptions “Tout Puissant” in French and “All Powerful” in English. He placed the bottle near the charm on the floor, brought out a young white cock from the adjoining room, suddenly cut off its head and allowed the oozing blood to drop on the charm and bottle. He uttered some incantations in Arabic and instructed Hamidou to collect the magical items from the floor. Hamidou was told that each time he drinks the liquid from that bottle and ties that charm on his waist nothing in the form of a weapon could penetrate him. If a whole army camp fired on him, for example, they would all do so in vain. Neither a knife nor a cutlass could cut through him at that moment. If the charm did not work that way, then Mallam would exchanged his name with a dog, Mallam told him.
Full of excitement, Hamidou thanked him and left immediately with the charm. But Hamidou committed a very serious error: he did not test the charm in Mallam’s presence. He failed to ask Mallam to try cutting him with a machete to test it. He had full confidence in the charm!
Very early in the morning of Wednesday December 5, Hamidou got up from bed and applied the charm. He fetched a machete and got it well filed. He called up Yaouba his neighbour, gave him the machete and asked the latter to cut him with it because it will not penetrate. Yaouba protested doing so and Hamidou then explained to him that he had used a charm meant to prevent cuts, stabs and bullets. And he had full confidence in the charm!
Without a second thought, Yaouba decided to satisfy his neighbour and see real magic at work! He asked Hamidou which part of his body he should do the test on. Hamidou quickly and confidently showed him his back. Yaouba raised the machete high above his head and brought it down on Hamidou’s back, producing the macabre scene of that early Wednesday morning at Madagascar…
Hamidou wasn’t dreaming. He was lying in a hospital bed and recounting this awful story. Officer Tana, Dr Fouda and Yaouba all listened to him in total bewilderment. When he came to the end of the story, he started weeping. And his three listeners, especially the doctor and the gendarme officer, all got confused, dumbfounded and speechless.
(c) January 2013 Nsah Mala
Saturday, 6 June 2015
An accession to a higher rung of the ladder of social criticism, Bites of Insanity portrays its author as a topical writer who beholds and ponders on the contemporary occurrences of his society and of the world at large. In 57 poems, subdivided into 10 different parts, Nsah Mala variously gazes at the negative and the positive in his society. The nascent Mbesa bard lambasts power abuse in a society that could be his but is also a prototype of any African nation; decries the lost glory of the African tradition sacrificed at the altar of ingratiation and materialism; makes a wry commentary on the insalubrities of the capital city of Cameroon; satirises the uninformed Cameroonian’s ignorance that exposes him/her to the lethal blows of malaria (cholera and other diseases); deplores the ambient ecological destruction, man’s moral depravity as well as depicts human frailty in the face of accidents and deaths.
Though virulent in his representation of these ills, the poet has obviously not given up on humankind. Hence, he enjoins society to value relationships; he also celebrates the people who positively impacted his life, and hails successes achieved and creativity. New-Age Muse or End-Time Literary Prophet? Nsah Mala resorts to a rich repertoire of poetic devices, vivid description, wacky terms, dark humour, and scatology—among others—to raise critical issues about modern man’s condition. After Chaining Freedom, this second collection of poems progressively establishes this budding writer.
Yvonne I. NGWA, PhD
Lecturer, ENS Yaoundé
Visit the following link to grap a copy: http://www.langaa-rpcig.net/Bites-of-Insanity.html
Visit the following link to grap a copy: http://www.langaa-rpcig.net/Bites-of-Insanity.html
I don’t want to be
I just want to be
That any Resident
Can become President;
That any President
Can become Resident.
I don’t envy
I do admire
Like the village town crier,
Is to envision
Freedom for all and sundry
And to uproot all thorns on path to Presidency.
I don’t want to be
I just want to be
That all Residents
Are embryo Presidents;
That all Presidents
Are egg-shell Residents.
(Bastos, 29 May 2015)
Thursday, 21 May 2015
In this plantain Republic,
Human parasites and rubbish
Are scattered and spread everywhere
Like wild locusts on green fields.
While we chock in smelly vapours of rotting dirt,
These voracious human parasites are busy sucking
Our banana Republic to anaemic and epileptic levels.
There is no pity in Republican business!
Our national blood is sucked into endless parasitic intestines
As white-agbadaed and black-coated parasitic zombies parade streets,
Preaching country love, exhibiting latest cars, spacious mansions...
Lousily flattering the Boss, they secretly backbite and siphon.
These parasites sprinkle sandy dust on disappearing national cakes
And spread political fog and clouds on eroding national hills
And press thirsty engine saws on whithering national baobabs
And handpick all fresh buds sprouting on quaking national fields.
Land of gory! Land of parasites!
Thou of death and sorrow, our only bar.
Thine demotion, thine be hunger,
And deep embezzlement forever more.
(Mbankolo, February 15, 2015)
Friday, 28 June 2013
My uncle, BabeAmbroseToah, who was working at CDC Tiku, told me—or it was guessed at the civil status registry in those days—that I was born in the month of Christmas on the 30th day in nineteen hundred and thirty eight. In those days, our fathers’ memories were mighty libraries that could store as much information as possible, especially facts, figures and dates. But unfortunately enough for me, I barely saw my father. He died when I was just about four years old. Since my father succumbed to death as early as 1942, as I was told too (did I know years and dates by then?), my exact date of birth remained a fertile ground for guess work. But one thing that everybody knew or still knows squarely well about me is my name—Nkainbi Richard Bangsi.
In 1954, sixteen years after my father’s death, I started schooling. I was compelled by circumstances to combine schooling and business in order to provide for my school needs given that my father was no longer there. I was dealing in castor oil. I would buy it in and around Mbesa and export it to British Nigerian markets such as the Onitsha Market. That fetched me fabulous sums of British pounds; pounds because Nigeria and the Southern Cameroons at the time were still administered by Great Britain…
“Richard, you better go to school now.” That was DonatusGwedji advising me. Excuse me, did I say Donatus? No. That is not how I used to call him. I called him “Good Friend” because he was indeed my best and most−trusted friend. Even now, I still call him like that, although I only refer to him now in past tenses. The Lord called him back home before the year 2011.
“I was still thinking about going to school, Good Friend”, I told him while wondering who was going to pay my school fees.
By then Good Friend was in Standard Five in Nkar, in the Nso area. It would appear that he read the verses of disturbance and hesitation on my face like a soothsayer reading cowries on a mysterious mat. Then he explained to me that the colonial authorities in Nigeria had made it clear that education between Infants One and Standard Two was free of charge. That meant that should I start schooling I would only begin to bother about school fees after Standard Two. By that time I would already know how to write my name, at least. I quickly made up my mind to go to school, especially as the idea had come from, or was strongly supported by, a very good friend of mine.
Thank God that the lone school in Mbesa at the time, Catholic School Mbesa, ran from Infants One to Standard Two. I therefore enjoyed free education at the same time with the joy of studying right at home, in my own native village. That gave me the possibility to plan for studies in the senior classes which did not exist in Mbesa. Four years came and passed like a flash of lightning.
Then I left for Djottin, in the Noni area, to enroll in Standard Three on self−sponsorship. I used to earn some money there by doing petty jobs such as clearing farmlands and carrying goods on the head for traders. I still continued the castor oil business while there, but at a minimum level.
When I completed Standard Six, there was nobody to sponsor my studies in secondary school. The needs of secondary education—including fees, books, rents, transport faire to and from the school site, etc.—were far above my limited means now. I gave up all the dreams of going to secondary school. All my attention and aspirations were now shifted towards becoming either a uniform man or a successful and renowned farmer.
I tried in vain on several occasions to be enrolled into the army. And I finally gave up the idea of becoming a soldier. Farming then became an unavoidable path for me to take to the land of success. I then got into farming with my entire mind, soul and strength. That is how I embarked on planting coffee—both the Robusta and Java species—in my compound, in Anyuoeh. I also planted some coffee in my farm at Anda’ang. In all, I planted close to two acres of coffee. And when my coffee wanted or wants to bear, it hits its chest in doing so. Fully involved in farming the way I did, I have never been ranked among idle fellows in Mbesa.
In 1969, I decided to find my left missing rib. The search took me down to Njinikom where I found my lovely Theresa Mbu. In strict Roman Catholic tradition, Theresa and I tied the knot of our love on September 17, 1969. That day! I will never ever forget that day. Our wedding was one of the best in Mbesa. It was more than just marvelous, so to speak…
Before the year 1969 ran out, I began my political career. I joined the lone Cameroon National Union (CNU) of Ahidjo in the capacity of Branch Secretary for the Mbesa Branch. Five years later, I became Branch President for that party and stayed in that capacity for long. Later on I became the Subsection President and maintained that position for long too. Presently, I am the Deputy Officer for CPDM Boyo II Section, in Belo.Meanwhile, I keep on playing politics and still occupying many posts of responsibility.
My love for personal development eventually spread like cypress branches into collective development. After all, what does it profit a man if he becomes a millionaire in a poor and inaccessible village?
“They say they need you in the palace on Kfééfèè. Have you heard, Babe Richard?”That was Nawain Susana Jenkuo delivering His Royal Highness Foyn Thomas Toah Njong’s message to me. In Mbesa we address the Fon—Foyn or traditional ruler—as “they” which is an expression of respect.
In reply I told her: “Yes, I have heard, Nawain Susana. Thank you for bringing the palace message to me. But I hope they need me for something good…”
“Well,” said her, “I suppose it is good, but just go and hear from the palace”.
When I got to the palace, I was told that they have called me to make me the Secretary General of the newly−created Mbesa Traditional Council. I later on occupied the positions of president, vice president and simple member within the same council. Each time I attempted to resign from the council after having served in it for so many years my attempts were foiled. Eventually Foyn Toah got missing—passed away—and Foyn Gilbert K. Njong III was rubbed to replace him. The new ruler too has never allowed me to take leave of that council. I’m however happy, very happy, that I’ve never fought for any post there. All the posts I’ve been holding there have been offered to me.
The development of Mbesa was intricately linked to mine in one way or the other, given the posts I held in that council. That is why I spearheaded the creation of the Mbesa Area Development Association (MADA) between 1963 and 1983. The Mbesa Action Committee (MAC) which was created in 1982 was re−christened Mbesa Area Development Association one year later. Even before the 1980s, Babe Gwedji Andreas Nshom (alias Ba Malase) and I had already conceived the idea of a development association for our dear village. The first seeds of the association were the Mbesa Social and Development Groups I had created in major quarters of Mbesa before 1982. These groups were formed in the following quarters: Ibal−Ichim, Soalam, Fetongle and Ntoh.
Babe Andreas and I had been sent with some money to DO Geoffrey’s Office in Bamenda in 1963 to negotiate a serious land issue concerning Mbesa and Oku. DO Geoffrey looked into the matter—because we were naturally right in it—, but did not accept the money. We brought back the money and decided with Foyn Toah to use it and construct the Mbesa Inner Palace—the Nsaang. This money had been contributed by all the inhabitants of Mbesa the way Christians contribute offertory in church. Although the people of Mbesa accused Babe Andreas and me of having embezzled the money, we had brought it back. In fact, Babe Andreas and Foyn Toah had used the money to makeplanks to be used in constructing the Nsaangwithout informing the people of Mbesa. They did this while I was in Limbe at the time. And it was in 1982 that I came back from Limbe, correctedmy friend`s and Foyn`s error and apologized to the people of Mbesaon their behalfbefore proceeding to create the Mbesa Action Committee, MAC. This money was not ours and so we could not use it by any means. The good use of this money in constructing the royal palace taught us the lesson of collectively contributing for the development of our community. This is how the idea of MADA sprang up and was materialized in 1983. By popular acclamation, I was made pioneer president of MADA.
I served as MADA President General for four years and it was during my reign that MADA realized the Health Centre project. When it was time to hand over the control of the MADA Health Centre to a missionary body, I organized a vote between the Catholics and the Baptists and the Catholics won. That is why that Health Centre is run today as part of the Saint Martin de Pores Catholic Hospital at Njinikom. Thereafter, I was elected MADA treasurer and I held this post for four years too. I was also the Chairman of the Health Centre until it was fully integrated by the Catholics and duly authorized by the state of Cameroon.
In the 1980s, I rose to the highest level in my political career. That was when the Cameroon National Union was transformed into the Cameroon People’s Democratic Movement (CPDM) by Paul Biya in the early 80s. I was elected as a CPDM Municipal Councilor for the Fundong Rural Council, in the then Menchum Division, before the creation of Boyo Division. I served in that capacity until when FruNdi’s Social Democratic Front (SDF) won over the love of a greater majority of Mbesa following the events of the early 90s.
When happiness visits you, you must start preparing to receive the sorrow it has come to announce. While I was prospering in politics and making much more money in the 1980s, especially out of my business and farming produce, another sad event added onto my father’s death in my life. This time around, my mother,Nawain Martina NdoasakVitoin, suddenly passed away…
My development tentacles also grew towards the church. Together with people like Babe DonatusGwedjiNgong, Babe Christopher ChimseFinji and others, I worked hard to help the Mbesa Roman Catholic Community to disjoin the Djottin Parish in Noni and to join the Fuli Parish in Kom. Later on, the Archdiocese of Bamenda raised the Mbesa Roman Catholic community to a parish, St Agnes Catholic Parish, Mbesa, in 2002. This was during the reign of late Archbishop Paul Verdzekov of the BamendaArchdiocese. In the same vein, I was the pioneer president of the Roman Catholic Justice and Peace Commission for Mbesa for a period of nine years. Presently, I am an adviser in that very commission.
Seven years after the creation of the parish, the saddest event of my life then occurred. I saw the cold hands of death wrap up my dearest Theresa and put her into the never−satisfied mouth of the earth. She finally surrendered to death after visiting so many hospitals. The story leading up to her death went thus: In 2008, she went to attend a Catholic Women Association meeting at Fuli, Kom, and got sick while there. From Fuli, she went to visit some children of ours who reside in Bamenda and used that occasion to consult in a hospital at Bali. She came back from Bali and the sickness continued thereby making her go for consultation at the Saint Martin de Pores Catholic Hospital, Njinikom, where she wasreferred to the Catholic Hospital in Shisong, Banso. She spent a month in Shisongwhere she underwent a surgical operation. The sickness persisted and she went back to Saint Martin de Pores Hospital where she gave up the ghost on 02 June 2009. She just died like that! However, she left behind twelve children to mourn her and eventually mourn me when my own turn comes to finish my pilgrimage here on earth. These children, two boys and ten girls, continue to make some traces of joy crisscross the ringlets of old age and sorrow on my forehead. Two of the girls have chosen to serve in the Lord’s vineyard as reverend sisters. The first of them is Bertha Yafi Bangsi, or Reverend Sister Bertha, if you like. And the second of them is Sister Emma ItanghiFebunevi Bangsi.
Will posts of responsibility ever allow me to take a rest? When will I ever go on retirement? May be, only in Heaven, if God does not appoint me there too. You cannot imagine that I’m still serving in that traditional council. The council was recently transformed by the Boyo Senior Divisional Offer into the Mbesa Crown Council. And once more I have been appointeda member of it. After all, I have always felt optimistic and capable of handling all posts assigned to me by whosoever and wherever.
My life, as you can see, has been a busy one. I’ve been working like a waterfall, working for the church, working for the world, working for Mbesa and working for my family and myself. I am, I believe, one of those who are born to serve, and not to be served….
(c) January 2013 Nsah Mala
(I wrote this short story based on an interview I conducted with him (Babe Richard B. Nkainbi) on Monday July 16, 2012.)
Tel: (+237) 7429-1746
BIOGRAPHY FOR BABE NKAINBI RICHARD BANGSI