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« World Cup:Who will be in Le Guen’s 30-man shortlist? | Main | Cameroonians Protest Land Sales to Foreigners »

Tuesday, 11 May 2010


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Mallam  Shehu

was that a transcription of a Mbuh house tittle-tattle or is it actually the work of your imaginations? Without any Jakri, learn to quit things before they you part.

BB would have kicked the mess out of your butt over such botheration.

Ras Tuge

Peter Vakunta has quite a fascinating persona, nothing short of a court jester.


And this is news how!!!!


I don't remember anywhere that this was a "news" or news only site. It is a forum for people of all political persuasions, from all fields to share their passion and views with others - provided they are thick skinned enough to take the ensuing heat. That's why we've had short stories, poetry, politics, etc. So I wonder why anyone will take issue with Vakunta's fiction...


Well, i agree with u. They can have any beef they want with the author, that is their problem.

Don't worry, Vakunta will set anyone straight if they cross the line. All these fake Mallams, spilling vomitus in this forum.


wow that was a breath taking fiction. hope u post another one soon.if acted well bec be a good drama and in a competition i bet the drama will be first. waiting to read more from same author.

Bob Bristol

When I go through such a narrative, my first preoccupation is the style of the writer. On this, I think Vakunta made a great stride.

As far as the message is concerned, if the current trend is for Africans to realise that Christianity or foreign religions were or are not the best options for us; which I strongly support, most of the alternatives equally fall short of rationalism.

At the end of the day, the whole issue of religion boils down to the individual reconciling himself to his environment.


I think Mallam Shehu and Ras Tuge are very critical which is good indeed. There can be little progress without biting critique though this must also be tempered with appreciation. There is no canon anywhere that says a writer's work must not be examined as 'is'. The problem is leaving the work to attack the author. Some would say it goes with the terrain; though personally, that’s not my grain.

That said, I agree with Alemache and Bob that it's a good piece. I also side with Bob on the matter of narrative style. The piece is dramatic and vivid and the message comes across.

As to the message, the question of relevance pushes Mallam to see it as "Mbuh house tittle-tattle," and Bob, as a problem of navigating the straits between equally irrational belief systems, which he sees as a futile preoccupation. There’s a Biblical expression that one cannot live on bread alone.

"boy" feels that this site must be about "news" only, which might be a pretty sad predicament. So much of the repository of a society's values and contentions, in fact, the best one can take of any society’s past or present is through its art and literary works (Fonlon made that clear, I think). Think of Shakespeare's England and Mediterranean Europe, think of the Italian Renaissance; think of Shaka’s ancestry and Mazisi Kunene, or of Sol T. Plaatje and early 20th South Africa, or of Sindiwe Magona; Soyinka, Achebe, Ngugi, Nuruddin Farah, Sembene Ousmane, to name some of the first generation writers, or Ben Okri and the African colonial and postcolonial life worlds they bring alive.

Coming to Ras' invocation of BB, I think he is addressing the question of relevance otherwise commitment to present contentions and that of "escapism" which BB has forcefully labeled at prior Cameroon Literature of English expression. The writer of the above piece has made good strides in that direction on this very forum, strides, which were well appreciated, I think. So he's certainly versatile.

While I appreciate the above comments, I'd certainly suggest the need for a balanced critique that focuses on the work and doesn’t adulate or condemn the writer. We have to rise to that challenge to appreciate works as literature. Few on this forum have taken up the many works of our writers serious and we have such a good crop today, who write not for money, for there isn’t any to go around after we’ve put food on the table, shopped Chinese wares, paid school fees, and saved the rest in njangis. We must appreciate the concerns of these writers and their devotion, to say the least. At best, when the political season will be over, it's the works they painstakingly produce that we, or the future, would be left with.

By the way I have a little handbook of Ahidjo's first second, third, and so on CNU governments with photos of the different ministers and their biographies which my dad showed me when I was a kid. You really have to see how young, well cut and ambitious these ministers looked then. Does any one remember all those faces we sang about, while marching on youth days as primary school students? Isn't it strange that none of us has any details on Ahidjo’s last hours? How come when he was so influential? Is there a lesson there that our politicians haven't learned?

Come to think of it, there's only one poetry book (and a seminal one in our literature) whose title enshrines a Cameroon politician...


"primary school pupils' I meant!


Now, having been so nice in my critique above, I know the reader will allow me (as in The Trials of Prophet Jero) to vent out the personal, which I suppressed while writing:

"Let us not lay waste our stories and literature with opportunistic infections typical of the slimy hands and lips of cynical, disdainful, power hungry, cunt-craving, and money-grasping mastodons that people the CPDM henhouse"

Theirs (unlike the stories of our writers) is a passing spectacle!
Thanks for bearing with me.


This is interesting and good for a place in Cameroon traditional literature and even beyond

Mallam  Shehu

"Unedited excerpts from Njume's Adventure" Scribbled by Mallam Shehu....

And a wind was blowing with ferocity, from left to right, back and forward, sweeping all the greeneries that majestically stood akimbo on its path. The morning was just as fresh as spring as the inhabitants of Ngola were about to wake up.

It was a rainy and misty morning, just like millions of other mornings, but who cared? This was the rhythm of things in Ngola. People were fed up with perennial issues and seasonal theaters. Ngolans were sick and tired of counting the moon, the stars and the position of the sun in the illuminating sky in order to keep track of celestial happenings of which no one could trace their accuracy. This was the rhythm of things in Ngola.

Njume was just about to sprinkle some fresh water down his pale sunken face, when his mother, Ma Eunice, was raising her throat boisterously like little Bedouin canneries while breaking the morning glory as she was taking in some breath to intonate the name called Njume.

Njume had forgotten again to put off the tilly lamp before going to bed; it was an abomination in times of hardship when prices of kerosene and paraffin were sky rocking day after day, month after month and year after year. Hardship in this stripe of the globe had inspired a lot of economics in the cortex of Ngolans.

It was of no surprise therefore that ma Eunice will lampoon Njume ceaselessly in times like this when he was reluctant to understand the simplest of economics boys of his age group were prone to. Ma Eunice had with time developed some sort of paranoia especially when she had to spend lots of money on things like paraffin. She could not digest the fact that her lone son couldn’t understand this.

Usually, boys in Njume’s age group will prefer to turnout their tilly lamps by nightfall and they will rather go and hover like moths on the street corners that still had lanterns lit. They will play there for hours till they were exhausted and towards midnight when the streetlights were about to be switched off, these kids will swarm back in their various thresholds. It is only then that they will light their lamps, just for a while, at least till everybody could find his or her way to the bedroom. This system of economizing was for Njume a nightmare because no matter how much he tried to be economical, Ma Eunice will always complain.

Njume was ma Eunice’s first child and he was her only son. Njume had two elder sisters who had already been bargained in marriage deals. They came from time to time to visit Njume and Ma Eunice, but because of the extreme difficulty in mobility those visits with time became scarcer than a dog’s tear. It is for this very reason that Ma Eunice decided to put all her eggs in one basket called Njume. Njume was brought up to play the role of a boy and a girl at the same time. There were times that Ma Eunice will travel for business reasons out of town and little Njume will be left responsible for making sure Ma Eunice’s household was impeccably held within its axis. Njume was always responsible for taking Ma Eunice’s place; keeping the hut together, making sure all was right. This was rather an unusual task for a little boy growing up, but because Ma Eunice had no choice but to bestow little Njume with some responsibility and self confidence, Njume had to bear the burden of being the only child still under Ma’s jurisdiction.

Once Ma was out of the village, Njume knew he had nothing to fear. The harsh words, the harsh looks and Ma’s numerous insults were meaningless now; they were like venom in mongooses, they had no real effect now, now that Njume was the manager of the house.

Njume was usually assigned to babysit his cousin Ngo when Ma was out of town. Ngo was a little cute girl. Ngo’s curled hair and her slim figure was at times the reason why she was very much liked by many. But in Ngola it was rather pathetic that most of the kids in her age group had little or no hair on their scalps. Not that their hair couldn’t grow, but just for the mere fact that most children in this age group were constantly suffering from some sort of bacterial attack that rendered even the coldest of hearts warm. These bacteria were capable of feeding fat on the hair. They will attack the hair at every surface of the scalp and when they finally succeeded in eliminating the hair from the scalp, they will make sure they attacked the tumor at its core. They will now proceed to the hair follicle and they will destroy any hair that dared to sprout. The scalps of these poor little children will now be smoother than a new born baby’s buttocks with little whitish and coin-like circles unevenly distributed here and there all over their scalps. This was the plight of children in this age group.

Njume was quite aware of Little Ngo’s calamity with her continual bacterial infection. He will treat Ngo at times like a little egg that was short of hatching. Njume will behave like a mother hen; he will roost the little Ngo with the instinct of a hen. Ngo was in fact Njume’s first cousin. Her mother was the junior and only sister to Ma. In Ngola it was not unusual to find little families like Njume’s. Most families had many members at the unset but plagues marinated with malnutrition and superstition contributed to the loss of many children.

The basics of hygiene were intentionally ignored in Ngola. People at times boasted over their ignorance to understand simple hygienic principles. Ngolans will idle in front of their endeavors and brag over their survival prowess despite their orchestrated failure to apply simple sanitary principles. They will at times claim that a poor person doesn’t die because of filth. “God lays a protecting hand over the lives of poor people”, so the saying went in Ngola. It was no surprise therefore that Ngolans were constantly suffering from amoebic infections; most people drank water from well, rivers, streams and pounds without second thoughts. The most striking of all was the fact that most palm wine and locally distilled whiskey boozers were the propagating forces of this ignorance and falsehood because all that counted for them was the alcoholic content of the bottle and the rest was left for Bacchus’s descendants to philosophy on.

One day when Njume was still in grade three, he was rather unfortunate after school to be engulfed in a hectic tittle-tattle taking place at Ma Mary’s spot. Usually, when Njume closed school, he went straight to Ma Mary’s palm wine spot to collect the house key from Ma Eunice who always stopped at Ma Mary’s spot to flush away the stress of her daily turmoil in Ngola. Ma Eunice and Ma Mary were very good friends. They shared most of their undertakings. In fact most of Ma Mary’s ardent customers were sure that they were both related by blood because they were very close to each other more than identical twins are. It was therefore not unusual in Ngola that palm wine boozers always drank to their biggest satisfaction irrespective of whether or not it was Ma Mary serving or Ma Eunice. It was true these two women textually looked alike in many physiological aspects. The most striking was their protruding buttocks. Most of the times the drunkards at Ma Mary’s spot would crack some jokes about their butts and so on. One of the notorious and most talkative drunkard, Pa Njimafor, usually described Ma Mary and Ma Eunice’s buttocks as cliffs. He will crack jokes about the stiffness of their cliffs, where as he always claimed, some cliff hangers could spend their summer time cliff hanging.

Pa Njimafor was like a fallen angel from heaven, he was renowned for his obscenities and speech talent while boozing and because he was boon with the craftiness of a fallen angel, he always made sure that when kids were around he will rather speak metaphorically to make sure the roaming kiddies didn’t get what he was saying bluntly, this was also true when he was in the midst of some adults like Chief Ayuk and Wang’asi who deliberately decided to remain infantile in their cerebrums.

On numerous occasions Ma Mary will receive all sorts of cajoles when she sounded to comply with a drunken customer, but when she was fed up, she will forget her diplomacy and overreact and this will irritate a drunken customer. She mastered the art of breaking the conversations of the boozing folks with her buttocks. She will intentionally walk towards the little bamboo table and pretend to chase bees that took asylum in the palm wine kegs. On this occasion, Ma Eunice will wobble her butt in a provocative manner. She will like tiptoe to ensure that her butts systematically functioned like the clutch and acceleration pedals of cars. While one was raised, the other was lowered and vice versa. This combination was perfectly simulated so much
so that Pa Njimafor, who secretly envied her backside, will crack another joke claiming a baby could safely sit on Ma Eunice’s buttocks without falling.....CR.


Mallam Shehu, gimme five, papa!

Little did I know that you were such an expressive writer. You've hidden your talent all along, until something provoked you to bring it out. (Credit must to Vankunta's piace).

You almost killed Pa Njimafor and Ma Mary in there, and I think they themselves will roll over with laughter!

I hope you will take this work seriously, write it to the end, edit, polish, then publish it in installments on this site, so we can read and enjoy it. Pay attention to the charaterization, and submit it, along with the great description to the story line. What is Njume's adventure about? That is question you must answer as you go even if you dribble along. I just glanced through the except and will read it closely again.

Thank you.


I'm sorry for the typos and bad spellings! ("Vakunta's piece," please)


You are nothing but an ignorant clown.

Your excerpts does nothing but leaves a bad taste in our mouths.

You will forever remain a looser, who will constantly go off on a tangent when confronted with the truth, or who will attempt to hide and change identities to support the rogue regime of Biya Paul.

I find nothing comic in all the vomitus u are spilling above. La Republic is paying u to divert attention from the fact that Biya Paul has raped Southern Cameroon for 28 years, and it is time for him to pay with his life.

It is time for Biya Paul to face Justice for all the crimes he continues to cmmit against humanity for the past 28 years.

It is time for Biya Paul to answer to the people of Cameroon, why he became a traitor agaisnt his own people.

It is time for the sons and daughters of Cameroon to rise up against the evil of La Republic, and throw Biya in the same infamous Kondengie,where many innocent Cameroonians have died.


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