The clouds were a plum-orange hue. As the birds withdrew to their nests, the greens of the palm leaves and the browns of their bark deepened in shade. Men either retired home after a day’s work of tapping palm wine, farming, splitting wood or fishing, or marched to the nearest bars to bury themselves in crates of Satzenbrau and 33 Export, finishing whatever francs they may have succeeded in gaining that day. It was also routine for them to pester waitresses for small something.

The off-licenses blasted West Life’s my love and Prince Yerima’s Afo-A-Kom.

Mothers shouted for children to run back home and wash up in time for dinner, sometimes in a throw of threats. The first to reach home would usually be given the larger piece of meat amongst their siblings.

With a water-filled basin on her head, Malobe mindlessly sang traditional songs on her as she pranced to the Mbe’s palace. Whilst climbing the hill leading to the palace, two boys, seemingly younger than her, stop her.

“Ma, we’re hungry,” they mention,

“Do I look like I’m with food? Na weti?” she retorted swiftly “I clearly have water on my head, and you are asking me about food? You people are lucky I am in a jovial mood today, will you get out of here?”

“Who are you talking to like this?”

“Hmm”

“Wait, are you not the person Mbe put in his house out of pity? What tells you you can talk to us anyhow?”

“Are you people stupid? Where is your respect? Do you know how old I am”?

“All this noise you’re making doesn’t affect us, let me just tell you”

They pushed her to the ground, and her fuchsia-printed loincloth untied. She tried to fight back, even biting one of their jaws but the boys proved stubborn.

“Please, I am sorry. I am sorry for being rude. Please don’t do this,” she pleaded. “What have I done? What are you doing to me? Why are you doing this to me?”

Her legs were widely spread, as she was pounded and hammered into, violated.

Looking into the sky, as the boy continued the massacre, she internally prayed, she wept.

“Lord, did I come to this world to hurt? Did I come to this earth to cry?

Did I come to this earth to wither? What do these sufferings imply?

Why me? No mother, no father?

Why me? Do I deserve this down under?

I pray that you forgive me, forgive me for whatever I have done.

But also forgive them, for this sin committed under the sun”

He spat on her face, in the same way you spit out after witnessing an event you consider repulsive, and as he did that he laughed with his friends.

Ten minutes later, he pulled himself out of her.

“Let us run, we don’t want someone to see us and report to Mbe”

“Are you mad? You want to enjoy alone?” his companion snapped.

“I am not saying that. Someone might report us, we have been here for too long. Do you want to land in trouble with him? Remember you are heading for Yaoundé in two days for your passport appointment. Do you want him to cancel your trip?

“You are right”

In shame, in blood and in pain, she was abandoned on the crimson gravel, left writhing in the same way a rodent knocked over by a pushing truck writhes.

As Malobe got up, she wiped her tears, limping towards the palace, broken bucket in hand.

She noticed a woman, an old woman watching her from the back of a mango tree.

Her skin was a burned mahogany, rich in cherry chocolate, and deep in a quasi-black. Her face was egg-shaped, and her eyes were a desolate white, telling a story of pain, and painting a portrait of regret. On the left side of her number-three shaped nose was a pimple, similar to Malobe’s. Even in her senile age, she was what one would call beauty, an older Malobe.

On her body was a torn, brown, loincloth. It looked like it had not been washed in months. The woman whimpered as tears rolled down her high cheekbones.

Malobe wobbled towards her.

“Why are you crying ma? Why did you not shout when you saw what those hooligans did to me? Why did you not come to succor? Why do you cry now? After witnessing the atrocity that was done to me? What use are your tears? What use are your tears to me?”

“My daughter, you are my daughter, ngwa Malobe, juma fuleuh, I am sorry, I failed you”, the old woman cried, as she walked away from Malobe, walking stick in hand, from Malobe’s sight.

She ignored everyone who questioned her state, who wondered what happened to her.

“You went to that man’s house again eh, you’re lucky Mbe is not around. But he will deal with you on his return,” Mado venomously provoked her as soon as she got to the main palace front.

Malobe looked at her intensely, with fiery tears rushing from down her cheeks.

“Why is this one crying? Are you remorseful for sleeping with another man other than the man you are married to? Or are you regretting leaving your lover? Six months ago, this happened and Mbe yelled at you, today again. Let him come. I go show you pepper.”

“Listen,” Malobe said, stopping herself in her words.

“Look at me, I am already pregnant for him. I am a real woman, what are you?”

In less than 3 seconds, a deafening slap landed Mado’s jaws, the type to leave engraved fingerprints. Mado immediately returned the favor, and thus started the wrestle episode. Malobe grabbed the broken bucket, pummeling Mado consecutively for what seemed like twenty minutes, halting only after being stopped by the mahogany-skinned woman she had encountered behind the mango tree.

“You again, what do you want?” Malobe shouted with vehemence.

“You are my daughter, I am sorry” she says, disappearing thereafter.

Immediately after Malobe sped to her room, shut the door, and released a great cry.

Malobe’s room was away from the main palace. It could not even be referred to as room, for it was a hole. A cemented hole with a box for a bed, and sacks-and-mottos for suitcases. It was as wide as a dining table. The young girl made it her home, however, decorating it with plants and clay pots, and empty beer and soft drink bottles covered in wax fabric she put together in her downtime.

“What happened to Mado, Malobe?” Mbe demanded as he knocked on Malobe’s door twenty minutes afterwards.

“Mbe, I beg of you, I don’t want to talk.” She responded opening the door made of iron. I have had it in this house with your maltreatment, with your neglect for me. You don’t make love to me, you don’t pamper me, you don’t care for me. What, then, do you want from me? Why am I here?”

“Are you normal? Is it your chief you’re speaking to as such”?

“Yes, it is. How dare you? I am enslaved in my own home. I am imprisoned in my own abode. What life is this? I don’t know myself, who are my parents? Who is my mother? My father? I feel like an illusion, I am in constant delusion. I feel hollow. You have disrespected me all my life. If you are not addressing my skin tone and calling me blacky, you are referring to me as ugly or you are comparing me to that idiotic Mado. What sort of a man are you? What sort of chief are you? Mbes are supposed to be adored and revered but I despise you. My body bubbles with how much disdain reserved in it for you. You are supposed to take care of your people, but how can you if you do not take care of your home?”

“Shut up, you bloody bastard! I saved your family by accepting you as trade! Your father would have died if not for me, you foolish ingrate! Your mother and useless uncle would have starved!”

With these words, Malobe collapsed.

The Ramabelle.

I’m on the verge of this glory.

And finally, I’m finding my soul.

Unjami Nami Kami Kunsani.

‘Cuz finally I’m finding my soul.

Perfumed in grace, the past erased.

Conquer this race? Oh that I’ll ace.

You tried to stifle me, a futile chase.

Now, I’ve found my place.

There’s no more strife, spirits alive.

Play me that fife, rejoice and jive,

The fields are clear, rebirth is here.

Oh, song of life.

I’m on the verge of this glory.

Cuz finally I found my soul.

Unjami Nami Kami Kunsani.

‘Cuz finally I found my soul.

The Ramabelle.

Glossary:

• Unjami Nami Kami Kunsani – It’s a me-God journey, I am one with Him.

Rama Kem for The Ramabelle.

The boy was an all-rounder, a polymath: his classmates even called him Booli-of-all-trades. His parents would send out birthday, Christmas, and teachers’ day gifts, which added to affinity the teachers extended towards him. His Math’s, Language and Literature teachers were always invited to his house for his birthday, and sometimes to family events. Even Mr. Naliman admired the boy.

During the Inter-Regional Athletic Competition, quartet became triad as a member of the swim athletes’ team came down with a stomach illness that rendered him hospital-bed ridden.

“The student will not be able to make it, I just received a text message from his mother,’ the Athletic Master frustratingly mentioned, seeking Mr. Naliman’s counsel.

“What, then, do you suggest?” posed Mr. Naliman.

“I am going to put Booli in,” declared the Athletics Master.

“No, not Booli, he cannot swim,” Mr. Naliman revealed.

“Oh, come off it. You and I know that Booli is the next best thing. He may not be part of the swimming team, but he does swim every weekend, no? His family pool is practically a mini-ocean,” the Athletics Master explained.

“I know what I am telling you, the boy cannot swim,” rebutted Mr. Naliman as he intuitively scratched his rotund, beer-filled belly.

 “Naliman, would you grow up? Your feud is against his parents, involve him not. Moreover, said dispute happened a year ago. Grow up!” advised the Athletic Master firmly, as he sauntered towards his students, toothpick between lips.

Behind the teachers’ chambers, where both men had discussed, was a bathroom which carried the sign “DO NOT ENTER. THANK YOU” plastered on it. Booli, who had no luck using other bathrooms present at the establishment, was forced to use this non-functional toilet. He became an unwilling listener to the men’s’ conversation.

The boy pulled out the bottle of sanitizer in his tote bag, and ran off to his friends.

He was, then, approached by the Athletic Master agreeing to his proposal.  

Prior to this event, the year 2021 was the last time Bramann Academy was awarded the gold medal at the Inter-Regional Athletic Competition’s swim portion. It appeared that Booli Chamradan was the school’s four-leaf clover.

A few hours later, as Booli enjoyed snacks and sweet drinks with his friends in celebration, they heard a loud thump and splash, followed by infantile yells.. “HELP!! BOOLI, PANDRAM, SHAMI, HELP ME” were the elevated noises that Mr. Naliman spread between panting sessions.

Life would have it that Booli’s friends were non-swim athletes, so all eyes were fixated on the boy to save his teacher. The eighteen-year-old paraded to the pool shore, and thought “surely fifty percent of the splash could be attributed to his rotund belly” as he guffawed externally. He grabbed a blue pen from his back pocket and a sheet of paper from the Pineapple Fanta-sullied white plastic, four-legged table, and on this horizontally-lined sheet a few words were etched. Successively, the boy rummaged through his tote bag to find his ultramarine JBL headphones, which were already Bluetooth-connected to his iPhone 13 ProMax. He crowned himself with this gadget, and bounced away from the scene, bobbing his head.

Riddled in panic and disbelief,  his friends called the emergency hotline and waited the agents arrived before booking an uber to their respective homes. 

The thirtieth day of the first month of the year 2023 was the opposite of what a traditional Niadni Sunday looked like. The local women who danced around the town in lurid traditional attires did not dance this Sunday. The district chiefs and their wives who drove on the neighborhood roads and often stepped out to greet the locals did not do so on this Sunday. The local men who made a boisterous music as they drank homemade chai and beriberi and played harmonicas and flutes and accordions did not engage in these activities on this Sunday. Rumors of this melancholy had apparently been spread to the natural elements because tree branches collapsed, and tree barks oozed out a liquid similar in taste and in texture and in smell to ear wax. The clouds failed to impress humanity with customary indigo and vermillion hues, and opted for glib and glum greys. 

Garbed in all-black saris, kurtas, suits, and sun-glasses to fight the Aibmum rays, Mr. Naliman’s funeral service a fashion-lover’s dream. His family, many of whom were ministers of government and important United Nations personnel, were seated prestigiously at the front of the church. His fellow-teachers and the students of the Academy were situated right after them. In the next row were neighbors and well-wishers.

After heartfelt and deeply verbose eulogies recited by Mr. Naliman’s most cherished ones, chants and performative dances were presented by two or three artistes who were requested to.

“And now we will have star student, and communal favorite Booli Chamradan say a few words in honor of our beloved, and on behalf of his fellow students,” the maître d’ordre announced.

The boy arose from his bench, and dragged his feet through his schoolmates’ squished knees, in the manner of the snake. He accorded a few of them low-fives as he made his way to the end of the bench.

“Please applaud, this well-suited, well dapper gentle man as he makes his way to the podium.” The maître d’ordre proclaimed.

When Booli got to the podium, he extended his arms to greet the maître d’ordre, who pulled him in and tapped his back three times as if to warn the boy against forthcoming danger. Booli, however, did not pay any attention to this.

He shortened his upper body so as to ease access to the church’s microphone. After a few subsonic giggles, the boy pulled out a horizontally-lined sheet from his back pocket. He, then placed this sheet on the sandalwood podium.

Following an array of subsonic giggles, he dropped his neck and read the words “Remember? I can’t swim.” And with that he strolled off, like a victorious mammalian predator, to the silenced dismay of onlookers.

Glossary:

• Niadni – country located in the South of Asia.
• Aibmum – richest city in Niadni.

Rama Kem for The Ramabelle.

Mati, baby Mati.

That the currents be conquered.

Move yous legs, to seeds and breads.

Free yous knees, to fire and grease.

That the fish and the corals will bow.

Mati, baby Mati.

Haka on. Release.  

Mati, baby Mati.

Go forth, even further.

The lions, and the bears and the snakes

And the rabbits and the wolves and the hares

Fight the fight, bite for bite.

Mati, baby Mati

In your search, you’d finds me theres.

Mati, mummy Mati.

Of legion hearts broken, filled with rue I am for you.

Of a million futures to have chased, yours I should have purchased.

Alas, positioned by this shores of this multi-distance stream.

And like the characters in that 80s classic film.

Mati, mummy Mati.

I realize that I can’t swim.

Glossary:

• Mati – name of child, and as is common in the African context, mother of the child is often called “Mummy [insert child’s name]”

Rama Kem for The Ramabelle.

I curse you.
For instilling in me hate,
For this weight,
For teaching me that black is bitter,
For teaching me that black is litter.
I curse you for tainting and taunting
A girl on the verge of 10
For bleak, for grim, for then,
For soiling my fire.

The Ramabelle.

I was there:
When your tears lied
When the paint of pain dried
When a hug was insufficient
When your tongue was heavy
But your eyes were a choleric music
When your walk told the story of decline
When the texts read
“you’re not mine;”

I told you:
I will hold your hand, like you held mine
Never to part, never to recline
I will cry with you, for I am thine, desperately so
I will dance for you, sweet, coy vine, deeply souled
I see you; I owe you; I am you
I hold you; I mold you, never to fold you;

I remember:
Arms sinewy, our Louis.
Feet moving to the cadence of the earth
He was blessed, he was cursed since birth
But even gods have ashes
And even gods lick gashes
An ingest of blood in company of the cloud
A silent death for a love out loud.

The Ramabelle.

I’m afraid I’ve become numb;
I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a time when a single care, I have none;
When the pain, the pang no longer is laced in emotion;
When the pain, the pang no longer is veiled in motion;
I was once filled with hate and that was alacrity, passion;
And I once loathed you when fervor, when favor strutted in fashion;
Waiting for you, needing your action;
An addiction to your subtraction;
Today I write about it, I write about you;
And I choose not to cry about it, not to cry about you;
And even if I cry about it, I’m no longer shy about you;
Shelling, spelling, these will longer do.

The Ramabelle.