Up Station Mountain Club

Troll Profiles

Kangsen Feka Wakai

 Someone somewhere, and I am certain it wasn't online, once wrote that to know a country's soul, all one has to do is read its writers.  But in this electronic age, where books are somewhat being relegated to antiquarian status—at least in certain parts of the world, the blogosphere seems have inherited the role of mirroring a [virtual] community's [nation or country will is not appropriate in this case] mood.  

Motion of Support

Kangsen Feka Wakai

Mindful of the constitution of the Republic; one that only you could envision;

Mindful of law No. 1982/114 to ensure peace, prosperity and happiness for eternity, notwithstanding all the provocations from that delusional dictator Nguema;

Mindful of Decree No. 1984/406 creating the office of shit talking and anointing me as a parrot at your service;

Aware of the lethargy and feymania that continue to reign through out the Republic;

Palapala Magazine First Aniversary Issue Now Available Online

By Kangsen Feka Wakai (Founding Editor)

This issue of Palapala magazine marks our first anniversary in existence.

Tolu Ogunlesi, one of our most diligent supporters and a recent nominee of the CNN multichoice African journalist of the year award, attends a Marechera conference in Oxford, and talks to those who knew and were impacted by the writer.

Dibussi Tande, a Palapala magazine editorial team member, reminds us that birds can soar with clipped wings in his response to Patrice Nganang’s essay on Anglophone Cameroon literature published on his blog. The debate continues…

In this issue, we also pay tribute to Bate Besong, the Obasinjom Warrior.

Video Cassettes and Look-alikes

Kangsen Feka Wakai

I was sitting in a coffee shop on Carey Ave. Square in Chelsea when a skinny woman wearing worn jeans and a faded blue t-shirt walked in and whispered something in the proprietor’s ear.    Then she walked swiftly out.

“Michael Jackson is dead,” he announced.

I think it must have been 5:36 pm.  I checked the time and made a note in my journal   I also marked it as the official end of my youth.  

Earlier that day, though I can’t remember exactly when, I had read a headline on yahoo that said Michael had been rushed to the hospital. I didn’t read the entire piece.

I didn’t read the piece because for as long as I can remember, apart from occasional nostalgia derived from listening to Off the Wall-Thriller era hits, I had developed a sort of numbness for anything Michael Jackson.

Tips on how to improve your country's image

Kangsen Feka Wakai

1.Do not transfer money in MUKUTA bags especially if your country is known for its ravaging rodents.  Write a check or do a wire transfer.  It is 2009!  

2.Sack the first lady's hairdresser and make-up artist.  It is a question of national integrity/security. 

3.Invite a high profile guest to your county.  

Our Apostles Creed [as we prepare for 2011]

Kangsen Feka Wakai

I believe in Paul, our father almighty
-[absentee] president for life-
Maker of our hell on earth.
And in Frank, his first son, a brat and future lord:

Who was conceived by royal semen
Born of [perhaps] an unknown mother,
Raised by Irene, who died mysteriously
And was concealed in a closed casket;

Rumours of War - A Memoir by Kangsen Feka Wakai

Kangsen Wakai's memoir on Bamenda under the State of Emergency in 1992 (Originally published in African Writing)

He had caught grenades with his bare hands and turned them into inconsequential specks of dust. He carried with him a staff that had deflected a torrent of bullets. He had converted would-be assassins to his flock on the spot, singling them out from a crowd of thousands. They all swore they had seen this with their eyes.

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He could appear and disappear. Just like that; one minute he was there and the next he was gone. They said he had been ‘cooked’ with the most potent juju; he had spent six days and six nights in the forbidden forests of Oku. Justice was on his side they insisted, but most of all, the medicine people, from the Aghem thunder-makers to the Batibo spirit-catchers, were on his side. He was untouchable. The uniformed goons couldn’t touch him. He was divine. He was truth. They couldn’t lay their accursed hands on him for he was the honey-tongue genie of elusive dreams with the power to conjure the apocalypse.

So, he was a messiah, our own latter-day saint.