I am in Douala, a littoral province in Cameroon in search of residual relics from my past. I have been here these past four weeks piecing together flickering fragments of what is left of my five decades of contact with this land. It is late July and it has been raining almost all day here as it does this time of the year. My old mother told me I was born here some five decades ago one fine raining morning. I happened to be taken out of here at an unripe age of seven when my senses were still forming. Since that time, I am just making a reconnection with this land in which my umbilical cord was buried. But I had made two stop overs here during air flights. One was aboard the defunct Nigeria Airways in 1993 en route Nairobi when our plane was advised to return to Lagos as the airspace had been closed as a result of the then raging Rwanda/Burundi war and last year on board Kenyan Airways to Bujumbura, Burundi, the country currently in flame as a result of the refusal of their war-hero president to step aside for another contender to the presidential throne.
Before I left home on this voyage of rediscovery, my old man had sounded a foreboding; virtually all his peers in Doula had long gone to meet their maker. This meant that I might not see those whom I knew or grew up to meet. That explains why I seem to find emptiness everywhere I go here. How could a child who was barely seven when he left a place come back some forty something years later be able to recognise anything he had seen then? It is like searching for what had once existed but is now long gone. But like Alex Hailey of The Roots fame, I am filled with determination to make a sense of the formlessness I now encounter. This is Bata Congo, the area where my parents were domiciled; a short distance to Douala Grande Mosquee (the Doula Central Mosque), and also close to the area that harboured what became the popular Lagos Market, now christened Marche Central. That area has become a bustling market centre. Then, it was a sparsely populated area. A few thatched roofed houses even existed at that time. As a child, we (I and my parents) lived in a row of houses that formed a square, with a big courtyard which had a well in its centre and in which we the children were bathed and household utensils and clothing were washed. Now that structure is long gone. Before my mother left that settlement, she told me a mysterious fire had gutted that habitat and she, like all other tenants there, lost all her belongings, including precious items and money in that fire. That fire accident was indeed a big setback for her as she had to start all over again. The building had been rebuilt. Now as I stand in that street, where I began my journey into life, flickers of memories flash through my brain.At what point I became aware of my existence, I may never fully know. But there are fragments that suggest when I began to know and differentiate between beings and things. There was the fearful man we called Olubadan. Why that name was given him, I do not know. Olubadan had thick horizontal tribal marks on his cheeks. He took delight in terrifying small kids with his ferocious looking wood carving. I would almost freeze whenever that sculpture was brought close to me, hence I never ventured near his room. I suspect he was invited whenever I commenced one of my attention-seeking crying bouts. There were the goldsmith, and the old Baba Tailor who could never insert thread into the needle hole and would always seek the help of any child passing bye. It was one big, happy family. Every weekend when most people stayed indoor, a roving doctor would come to examine each child and take complaints. Drugs were promptly dispensed. I remember following older children to run errand, to buy things at nearby shop around Bata Congo. And in the evenings when vans moved round the streets emitting vapour-like substance into the air to kill mosquitoes lurking around to give us merciless bites. The memories come flooding me as if it was only just yesterday.
But the Bata shop from which that area got its name, Bata Congo, was long gone as with most Bata shops in Africa. Another important landmark in that area, Cineka, the cinema house had been demolished and the area occupied by churches built to win back the lost or wandering souls. The cinema house had probably lost its old glory by becoming desolate since the arrival of home video as experienced in most parts of Africa before the church people took over the place. Today, Bata Congo, to me, is just another street, and does not conjure any close image of what I had known. Road construction and reconstruction also had probably altered the topography. An evidence of this was the route that led to the school I attended. The railway line on that road had been re-routed. I attended what was probably a nursery or kindergarten school, the Franco Arab Ecole, where the master, one ‘giant’ Mallam taught us in Arabic and French. I do not know where that school was or is in the present arrangement of the city, and no one I met seemed to know, as most people I see came here after I was taken out. Thereafter, I attended a school I am now told is Anglican Bilingual Nursery and Primary School, as it was—and still is—the commonest school most residents of Bata Congo area attended. The Anglican school was the first bilingual elementary school established in Douala in the 1940s, so a teacher in that school who approached as I took snapshot of the school building told me. It was licensed by the Cameroonian government in 1968. This was where I began the elementary education proper as I could then read and write the alphabet and the figures in French. I remember with amusement now my mother bringing home discarded newspapers from her trading point for me to read and I would struggle trying to pick out the alphabets from the tiny fonts in the newspapers. I was usually fascinated by the beautiful drawings on the school textbooks and the books had a kind of fragrance that was always inviting.We (I and other kids) attended Koranic school somewhere close to the Central Mosque under late Mallam Awesu Olomokewu whom we hardly see but whose voice came to us through his big window as he dictated short verses to us. Sometimes his long whip also came crashing on us through that window whenever our voices went low or faded out. We sat in a long corridor beneath his window where his long whip could easily reach us. The Koranic school was directly opposite the Grande Mosquee. The old building had been demolished and rebuilt and is now sandwiched between market stalls and shops. It is also now a storey building. There is no link at all between what my memory could recall of that place and its present look. Only a confirmation by one of his sons, Isiaka Awesu, who also happens to be my brother-in-law indicated that linkage. Otherwise that place would just be any other house in that area.
My mother sold light provisions such as bonbon sweets, cigarette, kolanut and the likes at Bonanjo area, one of the highbrow areas in Douala where the banks are located. She sold her wares under a big umbrella in front of a bank. I would not know which bank in particular, but there are still many banks in Bonanjo now. It is also a busy commercial area. My mother told me tales of how I would wander off into the bank offices while she was busy attending to customers and she would search from one office to the other to find me. The bank staffers became used to me and would carry me back, sometimes with gifts. My mother told me she got the inspiration to ensure I went to school because she wanted me to dress well like the bankers and also work in places like that. Even while in Nigeria, I remember she often sent nice looking shirts and suits to me. She said she often copied what she found the staffers or visitors or children of others wore and bought similar ones for me. She was that considerate and caring, and she never missed my size or height when she bought me shoes, shirts and trousers.
My parents came to Douala from Onitsha sometimes before Nigeria’s independence. My mother had gone to Onitsha with her big auntie when she was a girl to assist in her trading while my father traded in potash at the Onitsha market. Both of them speak passable Ibo for business purposes. There, the two met. My father was the first to come to Cameroon when he diversified into sales of women apparels and adornments. He followed a friend who introduced him into the business. They both went round towns and villages in the northern and southern parts of Cameroon selling their wares. Thereafter, my father decided to settle in Douala, and subsequently invited my mother to join him. A few years after their settlement here, I was born.
The only surviving member of the earlier set of Nigerian sojourners to arrive Douala still residing in that city is a man called Alhaji Abdul Azeez Ajadi (a.k.a. Baba Kafinta ‘carpenter’). I do not remember knowing him while I was here but he said he must have attended my naming ceremony on the eight day of my birth. Baba Kafinta is younger than my father. They were very close while my father was still in the littoral city. Baba Kafinta is also an in-law to my father as his son married one of my step-sisters. Baba Kafinta hails from Ibadan. His contemporaries, alongside my old man were late Baba Awesu Olomokewu, late Alhaji Sule Otun from Ikirun, among others. Baba Kafinta and my old man are the only surviving lot among those early Nigerian settlers of Yoruba stock. They were close knit and they allowed their children to inter-marry to foster their friendship.I meet Baba Kafinta in his house along Quartier Kongmondo derriere Hopital Adlucem Bali with my step-brother Usman Ayilara and Isiaka Awesu. The old man is a living encyclopaedia on the history of migration, settlement and inter-group relations among early settlers in Douala. He takes us down the memory lane on the arrivals of persons and groups in Douala. According to Baba Kafinta, the Yorubas from Nigeria and Benin Republic were the first group of immigrants, followed by the Hausas. The entire city centre as it is known today, in his words, was a bushy virgin land. The first Hausa man to arrive, he adds, was one Bako. Some of the early settlers were given land to build their houses and compounds while some others acquired lands through purchase from the aborigines or those who had earlier been allocated plots of land. Unlike the Yorubas who, no matter the length of time they spend in a place, still look forward to returning home upon retirement, most Hausas sojourn with intent on permanent settlement. Thus, today, the Hausas who migrated mainly from Nigeria, Ghana, Niger, Mali and Chad are the dominant group of settlers and have indigenized and hence own many houses and compounds. Of course, there are other ethnic groups too like the migrant Ibos of South East Nigeria who are known here as ‘Biafrans’ obviously in reference to the aborted Biafra republic attempted by late Odumegwu Ojukwu between 1967 and 1970. The Ibos dominate the vehicle spare parts business. They occupy an entire stretch of street along Camp Yabassi (vente ole pieces dettachees). Variously referred to as the Jews of Africa, our Ibo kin here are among the richest propertied class in Douala today. Like most cities of similar size, Douala is a city in transition. It has lost most of its old innocence. Today, Douala is like a voluptuous belle seductively tempting, hence many young men are losing their heads, yielding to the tempting city life. The people here are largely hedonistic and taken to sensuous enjoyment of all that life could offer. In most city areas, especially the central areas and downtown New Bell, drinking parlours are in abundance and many young men also abuse substances. There is no barrier to the time drinking could commence, though it is mostly common at evening times when most workers have left their workplaces. Weekend begins from Friday evening and partying lasts till the late hours of Sunday when most drinking parlours and open air bazaars make brisk business. Like most African cities too, crime rate is somewhat high here and crime has become almost a norm that people do not attach much seriousness to. Most are, however, petty thievery by young street urchins looking for money to buy booze. This ranges from stealing of shoes in the mosque while worship is on, carting away of clothing left on the rails or disappearing with stoves and cooking meals in a kitchen carelessly left open. Most people don’t look up to the police when arrest is made. The culprit is simply given a thorough beating and the items stolen retrieved. The existence of businesses which deal on disposable domestic items in many street corners could be encouraging larceny among young men, especially those ones given to drug abuse and heavy drinking.The advance fee fraud crime is also common here and many of our kinsmen have fallen victim. A close kin died after being swindled of a huge sum. He had borrowed to finance a scam and was weighed down by the indebtedness he ran into. He became withdrawn in deep thought, thus attracting hypertension which resulted in an eventual cardiac arrest. One sad morning, he slumped right in front of the house in which he lived and he was gone. I am remember receiving calls about noon one day at work in Unilorin informing me of the sad news and to ask my old man who had earlier relocated to Ilorin for directives on place of burial. He had then instructed that he should be buried there, since that was where Allah destined he would breathe his last. Such was his own case. Some of our people here also reportedly fell into crime of drug pushing and got jailed while some simply disappeared without trace from following strangers in search of gold or some unknown businesses. This city has tempted a few people into taking unguarded steps that led to a calamitous end.
It is common to see men lament the passing old times when things were good. Years of economic restructuring, privatisation and the likes have created economic challenges. Many able-bodied young and old men have taken to commercial motorcycle business. One young man told me that the motorcycles in Douala alone could fill an entire city in Nigeria. Everyone is into the business, including those previously driving taxi. But in spite of the complaints, food is in abundance, an average Nigerian would consider Douala a paradise. Here electricity is seldom taken and once taken, it barely lasts five or maximum of ten minutes before it is restored. Things are cheaper here compared to Nigeria and food, rich fresh foodstuffs, are in abundance.So much for the recollection of experiences of lost times: Before I leave Douala, I must pay a visit to the city’s Cimetiere de Boite des singes at Bonapriso where my late step-mother, Hauwa whom we fondly called ‘Mata’ and another kin, Baba Akeem were buried. I am soon here, in company of my step-brother, Muritala who is also resident here. We offer prayers to Allah to shower His mercy on their souls. After here, Khalid, a Lebanese engineer who is also my in-law throw me two sumptuous dinners; one at Mazaj Lebanese restaurant in Bonapriso and the second at his house in the highbrow Akwa area of Douala. He is too kind, kinder than most Lebanese I have met.Visiting here rekindles old memories. Alas, some memories, they say, last an entire lifetime, but these are only memories of things experienced when the senses are fully developed. I have lost many of these fond memories to fleeting times and the much I could reconstruct I am retelling here. Sometimes, meeting the right person strikes a good chord. Such would have been the semblance if I meet my friend with whom I grew up here in Doula. He is present in the photograph I am able to recover of my childhood, sitting next to me. The photo was taken when we were kids in Douala. But alas, he has some other things he is pursuing all through and my presence is not factored in his pursuits at all. He is an Imam in the Yoruba mosque here built by the Yoruba migrants from the Benin Republic. As I set to leave, I am still not able to see him, and thus, I have lost one good opportunity of childhood recollections through him. Well, I hope to return someday. Maybe then, I’ll be able to retrieve some more memories from my past.
* Except from Terrestrial Testaments: Literary Festschrift in Honour of Isiaka Zubair-Aliagan, edited by Okeke Job Izuchukwu, Mubarak Oladosu, and Saka Aliyu
