By Dr. Peter W.Vakunta
Two months after landing a job with the Upper Nun Valley Rice Company, the manager invited Kunta to his office one morning and gave him the keys of a brand new Yamaha motor-cycle. He exhorted him to use it exclusively in the execution of his official duties. The bike was a huge relief for Kunta who had been walking a distance of five miles in order to get to work every day. With this new means of transportation he could get to his office in about a half hour. He was very happy. However, when he received his paycheck at the end of the month, he noticed a twenty-five percent (25%) deduction. Not knowing what all that meant, he went to the accountant to find out what was responsible for the drop in his salary. To his surprise, the accountant told him that motor-cycles given to employees are normally paid off through monthly deductions from the salaries of recipients.
“Why did the manager not tell me this beforehand?” Kunta asked, trying hard to suppress his anger.
“That’s a question for the manager, sir,” the accountant said, nonchalantly.
“I am going to speak with him right now,” Kunta said, leaving the office.
He walked as if he had ants in his pants to Dr. Ovasabi’s office. The manager was welcoming two technical advisors who had just arrived from France and could not talk with him at that moment. He asked Kunta to come back after two hours. After two hours Kunta went back to the manager’s office.
“How may I help you, Mr. Kunta?” the manager asked, showing him a seat.
“Sir, I am here because I have noticed a 25% deduction in my paycheck,” Kunta said.
“Is that true?” the Manager asked, feigning ignorance.
“Yes, sir,” Kunta said.
“Well, have you spoken to the accountant?”Dr. Ovasabi asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Kunta.
“And what did he say?” Dr. Ovasabi asked.
“He said motor-cycles given to employees are paid off through monthly deductions from the salaries of recipients,” Kunta said.
“That’s right, that’s the way things are done here, Mr. Kunta,” Dr. Ovasabi said, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
“Sir, but why didn’t you tell me this when you handed me the keys?” Kunta asked, angrily.
“I didn’t have to,” Dr. Ovasabi said.
“You didn’t have to?”
“No!”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because I make decisions here and employees comply.”
Kunta was so infuriated he got up and left the office, slaming the door behind him. The motor-cycle affair led him to investigate the financial health of the company. Initially, he had no idea how to go about it. On a second thought, it dawned on him that the company’s translator-interpreter would be a valuable source of information. The translator-interpreter was the main conduit of information in the company. After a few abortive attempts, Kunta succeeded in making friends with the thirty-two year-old Mr. Awasom. Having made a few inquiries, he learned that Mr. Awasom was an alumnus of SAHECO College in Tisong. That gave him enough courage to go closer to him given that he too was an ex-student of SAHECO. Both men started to go out to have a drink together. Before long, Kunta was in possession of the top secrets of Upper Nun Valley Rice Company.
“Bro, sometimes I wonder how this company runs,” Kunta said.
“What do you mean?” Awasom asked.
“I mean, this is one of the richest agro-industries in the country but you know?”
“You know what?” Awasom asked.
“Massa, I just don’t understand how these fellows spend the money they get from the government, from rice farmers and from France,” Kunta said, putting down his bottle of jobajo.
“Do you really want to know?” Awasom asked.
“Why not? I work here and believe I am entitled to know how things are done here,” Kunta said.
“Don’t let me open pandora’s box, my friend,” Awasom said.
Awasom told Kunta that the manager owned a fleet of commercial vehicles bought with company money but registered in the name of his wife and siblings of his wife. He also learned that Dr. Ovasabi jointly owned a private timber exploitation business with the French government. Money misappropriated from the coffers of Upper Nun Valley Rice Company was being channeled into this private company. Dr. Ovasabi was reaping enormous benefits from it and had a well-furnished bank account at the Paris-based BNP Paribas where his wife withdrew money every month end to go shopping.
Another thinly veiled secret that Kunta managed to glean from Awasom concerned the illicit deals of the company’s Director of General Affairs who had formed the habit of inflating figures on purchase invoices for goods he made on the behalf of the company. In connivance with the accountant, he had also created a list of ghost workers whose salaries were going directly into his personal bank account. With the money he got from these fraudulent deals the Director of General Affairs had been able to buy a fleet of commercial vehicles, owned piggery and poultry farms, and bought shares on the stock market. He had also bought hectares of land all over the place and started oil-palm and banana plantations using manual labor from the company. He had opened an automobile workshop in town but no one in the company knew that he constantly diverted spare auto parts from the company’s mechanical workshop to his own shop.
Monsieur Atangana, the accountant, had misappropriated astronomical sums of money from the company’s trust fund to sponsor four of his numerous mistresses studying in France, and Switzerland. Complaints lodged with the manager by staffers were simply ignored because the manager’s wife was Monsieur Atangana’s niece. These revelations made Kunta so upset that he decided to go public with the information he had garnered from his friend and colleague. He wrote a scathing article shedding light on the intolerable embezzlement of funds at the Upper Nun Valley Rice Company and sent it to the Francophone weekly Le Combatant. Le Combatant had gained notoriety nationwide in blowing the whistle on cases of misappropriation of public funds. Not long after mailing his article, the weekly carried a front-page caption titled “Les Fossoyeurs à la tête des para-étatiques nationales”, which could be translated as “Grave-Diggers at the Helm of the Nation’s Parastatals” featuring Kunta’s name as the author.
The next day, the manager sat at his table, his head buried in a copy of the newspaper. He was reading Kunta’s article. He tapped his left foot on the red carpet on the floor, probably thinking about an appropriate punishment to mete out to the culprit. When he had finished reading the article, he went over to his computer and sent out an email to all the service heads incriminated in the article, summoning them to an urgent meeting in his office. He made photo-copies of the article and passed them out to all the department chairs who had answered his call.
“Gentlemen, there’s fire in the house,” he said, asking them to read the copies of the article he had given them.
Feverishly, the eight department heads, including two women read Kunta’s article. Monsieur Atangana was so exasperated after reading the article that he got up and started to walk around the manager’s office in circles. Mr. Ngong, the chief of mechanical workshop kept whistling, and shaking his kongolibon[i] head as he read the article. The others simply sat transfixed to their seats.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ve finished reading, let’s talk,” the manager said.
He had sent his office messenger to go fetch Kunta. He was greeted by sixteen hostile eyes as he walked into the manager’s office. After giving him a copy of the article to read, the manager asked him in a stentorian voice if he recognized the article. Kunta skimmed through it and said he had written the article. Scurry-eyed, Dr. Ovasabi asked him why he had done that.
“To correct the mistakes of the past,” Kunta said.
“What mistakes are you talking about?” the manager asked, raising his voice.
“The wrongs done to the impoverished rice farmers of Upper Nun,” Kunta said, looking him in the eye.
“What do farmers have to do with an article that accuses the management of this company of misappropriation of funds?” the manager asked.
“Well, there’ll be no Upper Nun Valley Rice company without farmers,” Kunta said.
“What do you mean?” Mr. Ngong cut in.
“I am suggesting that the company give farmers pride of place,” Kunta said.
“By doing what, man?” Monsieur Atangana roared.
“By using the funds generated by this company appropriately,” said Kunta.
“Gentleman, you’re barely a year old here. What the hell do you know about the financial management of this company?” the manager asked furiously.
“A lot, sir; I know a lot about the financial ill-health of Upper Nun,” Kunta said defiantly.
“Financial ill-health! Are you out of your mind? Can you provide evidence to buttress what you’ve just said?” Monsieur Atangana yelled.
“Sir, the evidence is in this article,” Kunta said, waving his copy of Le Combatant. in his face.
The interrogation went on interrupted for two hours. The manager and his assistants tried in vain to make Kunta tender an apology. He stood his grounds, arguing that company money had been inappropriately used.Kunta pointed out that rather than spend company money on white elephant projects that had nothing to do with the company, the management would do well to spend the money on improving the lot of farmers and employees. The company stood to gain, he argued, if farmers and employees were happy with the way company money was being spent. Realizing that the discussion was leading nowhere, the manager decided to put an end to it.
“Mr. Kunta,” he said, “in my capacity as the manager of this company I demand a written apology from you within forty-eight hours. Furthermore, I expect you to write a disclaimer to Le Combatant before the next issue is out. Do you hear me?” the manager thundered.
“There is nothing to disclaim in this article,” Kunta said, without looking at him.
“You’re playing with fire, young man,” the manager said, asking him to leave his office.
As soon as he had stepped out of the office, the manager told his assistants that Kunta would be fired if he did not comply with the instructions he had given him. They all agreed with the stance taken by manager but advised him to exercise caution given that the matter was already public knowledge. A week later Kunta received a warning letter in which the manager made it clear that all his movements were being closely monitored. The letter also stated that his employment with the company depended on his ability to strictly adhere to the company’s code of conduct, notably the clauses that dealt with professional secrecy, in other words, the sharing of company information with persons not affiliated with the company.
Kunta was unperturbed. He went about his business as if nothing had happened. In his subsequent debriefing meeting with the farmers, he informed them about what had happened. The meeting took place in the large conference room.
“No be wuna don ya di ting weh I don tok?[ii] Kunta asked after his narration.
“We dey for youa back tara! Go before daso!”[iii] Several young farmers shouted in support of Kunta’s fight to stop the misappropriation of company funds.
“We di work for ya like jackass, djintete dem di soso tif we moni,”[iv] a young male farmer said, wiping sweat from his scared face with the back of his right hand.
“Na turu sei monkey di wok, baboon de chop, broda,”[v] another farmer said.
“Helep we put shame for dem head, ma pikin,”[vi] said a haggard-looking woman.
“Dem sabi shame? Dem no sabi shame! Dem fit sell popo dem own mami forseka moni,”[vii] a man said from the back of the room.
“I tank wuna plenty, ma pipo dem. If wuna hia say I don die mek wuna sabi say na forseka wuna,”[viii] Kunta said, adjourning the meeting.
“God no go gring tara, go before we dey for youa back!”[ix] younger farmers shouted as they filed out of the meeting room.
When Kunta went to bed that night his mind was on fire. What should he do? Write the disclaimer or stick to his guns? He had no problem writing a letter of apology to the manager but not the disclaimer to Le Combatant. What would all the people who had read his well-researched article think of him? What would the editors of the Le Combatant take him for? Would they ever publish anything written by him? He knew the facts were correct. He was convinced he had written the truth. What was there to disclaim? He resolved that a disclaimer was out of the question. The next day he walked into the manager’s office, gave him his letter of apology and told him that he was not comfortable with writing a disclaimer to Le Combatant.
“You’re putting your livelihood on the line, Mr. Kunta,” the manager said, as he closed the door behind him on his way out.
“I don’t care if I am putting my life on the line or on fire,”Kunta whispered to himself.
The ‘Le Combatant Saga’ made relations between Kunta and his supervisors sour. He was prohibited from holding meetings with the farmers without permission from the manager who had sent informants after him. Everyone in the offices at Upper Nun referred to him as Mr. Combatant. Kunta was so worried that he took to heavy drinking in an attempt to drown his frustration. Out of fear of incrimination, he avoided using his Yamaha each time he went to Abakwa for some booze. He walked to town every evening after work to drink. Every now and then he would come back tipsy. One day, he went into an office-license bar where several rice farmers were having their weekly njangi.[x] They welcomed him like a folk hero and placed two crates of Mutzig beer in front of him.
“Massa Kunta, dis jobajo na you complice dem gee’am. Mek you souler we go gee some”[xi] the group leader said.
“I tank wuna plenty, ma kontri pipo dem. Mek God yi gee some,”[xii] Kunta said, uncorking one of the beer bottles with his teeth.
“Souler Tara, if yi finish we go gee some,”[xiii] said a chunky fellow wearing a pair of sagging trousers and dark googles.
“Tank wuna, ma kombi dem,”[xiv] Kunta said, pouring a second bottle of beer into his glass.
He kept drinking beer after beer until midnight. By the time he finished drinking the last bottle it was 2:00am. He was so drunk that he took home a whore twice his age. They were both drunk. Supporting each other by the arm they walked the four miles that separated Abakwa from Kunta’s home. When they reached home, Kunta was so tired that he went straight to bed without taking off his clothes and slept like a log until 8:00am. It was a Monday and he had to be at work at 7:30am.
“Na who dis?”[xv] he asked, pulling the blanket away from the naked prostitute who was still deep asleep.
“I beg gif ma nchou mek I begin go me nayo nayo,”[xvi] the woman said, opening her owl-like eyes.
“Nchou for wheti?”[xvii] Kunta asked, embarrassed.
“Wheti you mean? I know no nang for youa long? I beg, gif ma ndo. Back for dang moni for hand,”[xviii]she said, stretching her wringled right hand.
“Lookot! Just take youa foot commot for dis long molo molo,”[xix] Kunta fumed.
“Barlok! Gif ma moni-oh! If no be so I no di shake foot for dis long!”[xx] the woman insisted.
“Commot for dis long! Na who bring you for ya sef?”[xxi] Kunta screamed, angry and ashamed of what he’d done.
“See me dis foolish prabrakara pikin! You di take titi come for youa long wey nchou no dey? Nyanga di sleep trobu di come wake up’am!”[xxii] the whore said, clapping her emaciated hands.
“Akwara ting! Commot for ma hose! I knack youa kanda?” [xxiii]Kunta asked.
“Wheda you knack ma kanda or you no knack’am, di ting na say I nang for youa long, gif ma moni!”[xxiv]she argued.
“Ashawo di tif ting!”[xxv] Kunta shouted.
“Tif ting you too! See me some die man! You sabi sleep woman sef? Since last night you don touch ma dross?”[xxvi] she screamed angrily.
“But no be you be akwara? Wusai mina ashawo commot?[xxvii] Take’am carry youa barlok commot for ma hose,”[xxviii] Kunta said, tossing a 500.00 CFAfranc bill at her.
“Barlok you too, if na cosh!”[1] she said, catching the bank note that flew in the air.
The commotion she had caused brought Kunta’s parents to the scene. The woman had turned her back and fled before Pa and Ma Kunta arrived.
“Go to work. When you come back we’ ll talk,” his father said.
“I am sorry about this, papa and mami,” Kunta said, starting his motor-cycle.
It was 9:00am when Kunta drove into the premises of the company and parked his bike. Dr. Ovasabi was standing in front of his office, looking at his wrist watch and at Kunta. Kunta said ‘good morning’to his boss and walked into his office without looking at him. He had hardly sat down when the manager came in, gave him an envelope, and was about to walk out when Kunta started to apologize.
“I am sorry about my tardiness, sir,” he said.
“This is the way company money is misused by employees who can’t keep to time schedules,” the manager said sarcastically.
“I had a family crisis,” Kunta said.
“I need to see that in writing,” he said walking out of the office, his hands behind his back.
Kunta opened the envelope and read its contents. It was a warning, stating that he would be fired instantly if he came to work one more time. That day, when he returned from work he went straight to meet his father.
“Papa, I’m so sorry about what happened this morning. It’s all due to alcohol. I drank a bit too much last night. I’m deeply sorry, papa,” Kunta said.
“Listen, son. A woman is like elephant beef, do you hear me? You eat and eat but it never gets finished, the old man said.
“That’s true, papa.”
“A man’s seeds are precious, my son. Don’t plant them in barren soil,” Pa Kunta said.
“I hear you very well, papa.” Kunta said.
“You better hear me well because the next time you’ll want to listen, I may not be here,” the septuagenarian said shaking his balding head.
”You’ll live long, papa.”
“No one knows. Nyi Almighty alone can tell whether or not a man lives long.”
“You’re right, papa. Nyi knows everything about us.”
“Son, you’re a man now. It’s time you brought a woman into this house and started to make your own children.”
“I will think about it, papa.”
“Go to bed, we’ll talk about this when your mother returns from her farm in Messi.”
The following week Kunta and his father visited a soothsayer resident at Meusoh Quarter. They rode on Kunta’s motorcycle. As they drove past, men, women and children fled into the bushes and hid themselves behind tall trees. They had never seen a metalic horse before and feared it was going to eat them up. The sight of two people sitting on the iron monster struck deep fear into the hearts of the villagers. As the visitors got near Pa Ntumbi’s compound a grong bip[1][xxix] crossed their path from the right hand to the left. Pa Kunta interpreted that as a sign that the fortune-teller was at home. Kunta did not know what to make of his father’s interpretation. Pa Ntumbi was in his sanctuary when they arrived.
“I salute your bodies,” the old man said, inviting them both to sit down on bamboo chairs in his shrine.
Lifting his clean-shaken head from his ngambe-pot[xxx] containing several concoctions, he extended a hairy muscular right hand to greet his visitors. Kunta could not look into the witchdoctor’s hooded eyes as he shook his hand. His father did not utter a word. The paraphernalia that lay ipell-mell in the shrine scared them stiff. On the floor lay two empty human skulls, the teeth of a chimpanzee, the hide of a boa constrictor, cowries, camwood, tiny calabashes and the smoked entrails of a baboon. Against the wall stood four elephant tusks.
“What brings the people of Batulah to Meusoh today?” Pa Ntumbi asked, gnashing his dark uneven teeth.
“Pa Ntumbi, my son is in deep trouble,” Pa Kunta said.
“What’s the trouble? the man asked.
“His boss doesn’t want to see him at work,” Pa Kunta said.
“Why not? Did you say something that is not true?” the witchdoctor asked.
“No, Pa,” Kunta answered.
“Did you say something that made him lay awake in his bed all night?” the witchdoctor asked, looking straight into the young man’s eyes.
“I did not say something, but I wrote something” Kunta said.
Pa Ntumbi kept quiet for a long time, as he stared at the dry bones he had thrown in front his visitors. He smacked his thick lips and sighed.
“You wrote something about your boss and sent it somewhere far away from your home, is that correct?” the ngambe-man asked, without taking his eyes off the dry bones.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Kunta said.
Squatting on the dirt floor, the witchdoctor picked up the dry bones and threw them down in front of Kunta. Narrowing his eyes, without saying a word, he jumped up as if stung by a bee. He made a few dance steps, muttering unintelligible incantations. He sat down again, crossed his bow legs and pulled out a clay pot from under his bamboo bed. After having placed it on the hearthstones that stood in the middle of the sanctuary, he poured brackish water into it and uttered some more incantations. Then silence fell. It looked as if the old man had gone into a trance. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, scratched the right side of his head and beckoned to both men.
“Come, come here! Come close to the pot,” Pa Ntumbi said.
Panic stricken, Kunta and his father took a couple of unsteady steps toward the pot and took a look.
“What do you see?”
“I see the image of a man,” Kunta said.
“Take a close look and see what he has in his hand,” the soothsayer said.
Kunta took a closer look into the murky content of the ngambe-pot. Suddenly he screamed.
“That’s Dr. Ovasabi! I see him!” he shouted, moving away quickly from the medicinal pot.
Pa Ntumbi ordered him to get back to the pot.
“Can you see what he has in his right hand? Pa Ntumbi asked.
“It’s an axe. I see an axe!” Kunta said, trembling.
“With that axe he intends to destroy!” Pa Ntumbi said.
The soothsayer explained that Kunta’s boss had been so hurt by the revelations he had made about the company that he was determined to not only fire him but kill him as well. According to the witchdoctor, the information Kunta had divulged to the public was so sensitive that Dr. Ovasabi feared he would lose his job.
“What can we do to stop him from doing harm to my son?” Pa Kunta asked, crestfallen.
“Fear not! Fear nothing! Ovasabi may run but he’ll not hide from Ntumbi,” the witchdoctor said.
“Please, do something to help my son!” Kunta pleaded.
“Take this and carry it in pocket at all times,” the witchdoctor said, giving Kunta an amulet and the horn of a buffalo adorned with cowries and porcupine quills. He also made scarifications on Kunta’s arms and legs and applied traditional medicine onto them.
“Should have this on me when I go to bed?” Kunta asked, pointing at the buffalo horn.
“No, when you’re at home, leave it in your handbag. Never touch a woman and then touch this horn without washing your hands clean, do you hear me?” Pa Ntumbi said.
“I hear you, Pa,” Kunta answered.
“Thank you very much, Pa Ntumbi! What would we do against the evil that bad people do without s good men like you? May the gods always protect you! May they fortify you day and night,” said Pa Kunta, putting his son’s juju and amulet in his nkwo-meunong[xxxi].
After giving the fortune-teller a bag of kola nuts, two calabashes of palm-wine, and the sum of 500.00 CFA francs as payment for his services, father and son left for Batulah. Armed with a protective talisman, Kunta felt invulnerable to Dr. Ovasabi’s witchcraft. As they journeyed back home, his father cautioned him against actions that may put his life in harm’s way. He stressed the importance of candor and peaceful resolution of conflicts. He dwelled on the wisdom which lies behind the adage that says that the man who walks away from a fight is not a coward. He also underscored the dangers that celibacy and promiscuity harbor.
“Your mother and I have sent a knotted rope to the compound of Chui Ndah,” Pa Kunta said to his son.
“For what purpose?” Kunta asked.
“They have a daughter whom we think may suit you as a wife,” his father said.
“So you send them a rope?” Kunta asked.
“That’s the way our people ask for the hand of a girl in marriage,” the old man said.
“I didn’t know that,” his son said.
“Now, you know,” Pa Kunta said.
[i] Clean-shaven
[ii] I hope you have heard what I said
[iii] We stand by you, my friend. Ride on!
[iv] We work here like donkeys but all the big shots do is steal the money
[v] It is true that the monkey works and the baboon eats, my brother
[vi] Help us shame them, my son
[vii] Do they know shame? They don’t know shame! They are capable of trading their mothers for money
[viii] If you hear I am dead, know that it’s for your sake
[ix] God wouldn’t allow this to happen, my friend. We’re behind you
[x] Thrift and savings society
[xi] Mr. Kunta, this beer is given by your friends. Drink and ask for some more
[xii] Thank you so much, my home boys. May God pay you back abundantly
[xiii] Drink my friend. When it’s finished, we’ll buy some more
[xiv] Thanks, my friends
[xv] Who is this?
[xvi] Please pay me and let me leave peacefully
[xvii] Pay you for what?
[xviii] What do you mean? Didn’t I spend the night in your house? Please, give me the money. You pay for what you get.
[xix] Watch out! Please, get out of this house peacefully
[xx] Tough luck! Give me the money! Otherwise, I am not moving an inch from this house
[xxi] Get out of this house! Who brought you here in the first place?
[xxii] Look at this stupid boy from Prabrakara! How can you bring home a woman home when you’re broke? It never rains but it pours!
[xxiii] Whore! Get of my house! Did I fuck you?
[xxiv] Whether or not you fucked me, the point is that I spent the night in your house. Pay me!
[xxv] Thieving prostitute
[xxvi] Thieving man! Look at this useless man. Can you fuck a woman? Since we got here last night have you touched my underwear?
[xxvii] But aren’t you a whore? What business do I have with whores?
[xxviii] But aren’t you a whore? What business do I have with whores? Take this, leave my house and spare me ill-luck
[xxix] Giant rat
[xxx] Medicinal pot
[xxxi] Traditional bag
Note: This is an excerpt from Dr. Vakunta's forthcoming book titled NATION AT RISK:A PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF THE CAMEROONIAN CRISIS
Interesting. When I began reading this extract, I found myself on very familiar territory in more ways than one. Ngohketungjia, formerly known as Ndop, is the headquarters of a part of the country where I was born and raised, a place where I had my earliest experiences in earning money, way before UNVDA and rice cultivation came to the scence.And when UNVDA was introduced one of its earliest bosses was a classmate of mine right from primary school in those good old days of probity, respect for the common good, the golden rule and all. And so I was quite excited and indeed absorbed with reading Dr. Vakunta's expose.
But then I soon found myself with some strange-sounding names and slowly reality passed imperceptibly into fiction. What a shift! I cannot quite say the thrill was the same or that I was disappointed. But I was surely dying to see how present day Cameroon handles issues of graft, embezzlement and the impunity with which an individual can convert such a giant enterprise into a money-making device for himself and those around him. The fiction is not too far from what obtains in reality in the country of Communal Liberalism and grand ambitions and grand realisations. It will be worth reading when the book comes out!
Posted by: John Dinga | Thursday, 26 January 2012 at 11:18 AM
I agree with most of the points you make within this content.
Posted by: IT Consultants | Monday, 28 January 2013 at 01:11 PM
great website keep it good work. thanks for sharing wonderful site.
Posted by: Multi Skills | Monday, 28 January 2013 at 02:03 PM
Thanks for sharing this interesting blog with us.
Cayos Cochinos
Posted by: Cayos Cochinos | Friday, 08 February 2013 at 12:05 AM
Nice interesting post keep sharing .
Posted by: buy dissertation online | Friday, 08 February 2013 at 12:54 AM